There’s a story here. It’s not an important story. It’s interesting to me, based on language and the desires that language guards. In a period of personal heartache, this song was a turning point. It was the part where I accepted my fate, weighed my heart and offered to wait, for how long, as long.
Just to be clean. Just to feel like I’m walking upright. See The Martyr, Be The Martyr. And let the first letter be a slamming door on a windy day…open and close with great clattering. This song is ‘Ring It Out’. It could have easily been ‘Wring It Out’. Ya see? Getting clean, being clean.
And that’s what this is supposed to be. But it’s not.
This is not the time to pass the time. This is not the time to sell a fucking record.
This is where I admit I am breaking down. That the weight of this ugly fucking rock wears down the most disinterested of us. This is Now.
Bad information blows in on impossible winds and birds make their nests. They console there twig walls with lies and half truths, trying to convince some other bird that this is the appropriate way.
Our global game of ‘Telephone’ has disrupted progress. We’ve had the blinders torn off this time and we see it too clear: 60% of this great Democratic experiment are morons and bitter as fuck about it.
At what point do you hit the turn signal when your whole fucking country is getting Westboro’d?
I’m fucking disgusted. I’m heartbroken. And care fuck’all about your opinion on it.